User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 40
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Forty 24 June 1995 Alastor was unsurprised at the knock on his door. He’d been expecting Dumbledore to appear for a debriefing, although he hadn’t expected him quite so soon. He had managed to wheedle some of what had happened that evening from Poppy Pomfrey, refusing to take any of her blasted potions unless she told him. And then he’d refused anyway. The knock came again. He moved slowly to the door, fumbling in his pocket for the magical eye. He popped it into his head. It whizzed and swirled as if possessed, and refused to focus on the door long enough for him to get a look at the person standing on the other side of it. Cursing Crouch for the millionth time, he plucked the eye out, spat on it and rubbed it against his robes, then stuck it back into the socket. It was calmer, like a Crup puppy that had been chastised, but it still didn’t show him anything more than a hazy silhouette standing in the shadows of the corridor outside his rooms. There was another knock, louder this time, but before he could demand that the caller identify himself, a voice said, “Alastor, it’s Minerva.” He stepped back. His mouth was suddenly dry and he couldn’t speak. “Alastor?” A chill ran through him. Could be one of them. “Alastor, please answer.” It sounded like her, but spells to change a voice weren’t hard for someone who knew what he or she was doing. So the question was, should he open the door and try to figure it out, or ignore her … or whoever it was? The prospect of opening the door made his bowels go loose, but the idea of sending her away without telling her he was sorry gave him an ache in the centre of his chest that he suspected would never entirely leave him. “I’m not leaving until you at least speak to me, Alastor Moody.” The tone was Minerva’s, but anyone who’d sat in her classroom for more than a few minutes could probably imitate it. He wanted to open the door, to see her, to speak to her—apologise for everything he’d done from the moment he’d got it in his head to pry into her past right up to failing to take Barty fecking Crouch down a few hours ago. But he was paralysed with anxiety. Breathe, boyo. Think. He leant against the door and slid down to a sitting position, back against it, listening. What a goddamned cock-up. A boy was dead because of him. By some miracle, it wasn’t Potter, and Pomfrey hadn’t said anything about the Dark Lord, so either she didn’t know or Crouch’s plan had failed. He pressed his ear to the door. He heard nothing, and his heart sank in spite of himself. “Bugger.” “Alastor, thank Merlin.” The tone was softer now. “It’s really me. I know you need to make sure, so do whatever you must. I won’t move.” He put the palm of his hand to the door as if he could touch her through it. It had been so long and she was so close, but he couldn’t bring himself to say a word. There was white noise in his head, and for a moment he was back in the trunk, trying desperately to keep her out of his mind as Crouch interrogated him. “Please, Alastor,” came her voice. “I’m putting my wand on the floor. You can bind me if you like, but please let me in. I need to know that you’re all right. Please. I’m begging you.” Oddly, it was his phantom voices, buzzing their low symphony of fury and doubt, which helped him focus. They were familiar and somehow reassuring. He was Mad-Eye Moody, and, if nothing else, he knew how to handle the enemies that lived in his own bloody head. He got to his feet and drew his wand. Opening the door a crack, he saw Minerva standing there. Or someone who looked like her. He stuck his wand through the opening and cast. “Finite Incantatem. Homenum Revelio. Specialis Revelio. Decipere Aperio.” She closed her eyes as the barrage of spells hit her. Although a couple of the charms were bound to be uncomfortable, she didn’t flinch once. Nothing happened, and he wanted more than anything to trust what was in front of his eyes. But a little voice whispered that a talented witch or wizard could defeat even the strongest of revealing spells. He stood with his wand still extended, unable to cut through the terror that gripped him at the thought of taking action, any action, that might result in something permanent and irrevocable. His paralysis broke when she took a step toward the door. Panic made him thrust his wand out, and she put her hands in the air as if she were a fecking criminal. He hated himself. She was calm, almost sanguine, though, and his terror abated a little. “Ask me something only I would know. Anything,” she said. He still couldn’t speak; his thoughts were a tempest of warring desires—to slam the door and never open it again; to pull her into his arms; to hex her into oblivion for not knowing that Crouch wasn’t him; to fall at her knees and beg for her forgiveness … “Shall I tell you about myself, then? Secret things?” she asked, slowly lowering her arms. “I … I slept with a man who wasn’t my husband for money. I Transfigured Gerald into a rat when he threatened to take Malcolm away. I tricked Albus into—” “Stop!” He looked hard at her, searching her face for any sign of deception. “What was the first gift I ever gave you?” he asked. Her hand went to her throat and fingered the silver-and-agate circlet there, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “This brooch. For my thirty-sixth birthday.” It was a stupid question, but not a thing a Dark wizard who’d plumbed Minerva’s mind for information about Alastor would have been looking for. When he opened the door wider, he felt as if he’d stripped off his clothes. He cursed himself for it, but nothing—not love, not exhaustion, not the knowledge that no Dark wizard could have known about the brooch—could stop him. “Expelliarmus!” Her wand flew toward him and struck him mid-chest, but he grabbed it before it fell to the floor. She still wore the smile. Her palms were turned outward, not in supplication, but in an act of trust that almost made him melt. His good eye went to the brooch. “You still wear it.” “It’s my favourite.” He hoped she didn’t notice how much his hand shook when he held her wand out to her. She was close enough to touch, and it was too much for him. His eyes stung and his jaw worked furiously. He turned his back so she wouldn’t see. “Come in.” His words were choked, and he wondered if she’d understood them. Her robes rustled behind him, and he forced himself not to turn his wand on the sound. He walked slowly, leaning on his staff, then let himself fall onto the settee, his heart racing. If this wasn’t Minerva, well … he was so tired that he was ready to pack it in anyway. He could just turn his wand on himself and end it all. But Christ, how he wanted it to be her. She sat in the chair opposite him, and when he got up the nerve to look at her, there were deep lines etched in her forehead. She looked as tired as he felt. “I’m so sorry.” Her words hit him like a Bludger. “You?” he said. “I should have known it wasn’t you immediately. I should have—” “No!” His shout made her flinch. “If anyone has a call to be sorry, it’s me,” he said. “I failed you. In so many ways …” His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands, ashamed at the tears he couldn’t stop. She went to sit next to him and pulled him in to rest his head on her chest. “It’s all right, love. Everything’s going to be all right now.” Her arms and the soft beating of her heart shook something loose in him. He clutched at her blindly and buried his face against her, sobbing like a ruddy baby, his shoulders heaving and his breath shuddering. She crooned soothing words he barely heard over his sobs, and rocked him, her hands stroking his hair. He felt her kiss the top of his head like his mam used to do before the gin made her forget everything but itself. It shouldn’t have worked, but it did, and he felt the storm pass. He couldn’t look at her. It was unforgivable, losing control the way he had. He searched for something to say. “I’ve got snot on yer robes.” “It wouldn’t be the first time. And frankly, I’d rather yours than some homesick firstie’s.” She pulled a handkerchief from her robe pocket and gave it to him. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Stupid. Can’t seem to get control of myself.” “It’s no wonder. You’ve been through something unimaginable.” He blew his nose. “Wasn’t the Shelbourne Hotel, but I survived.” She reached out as if to touch him, and he drew back without meaning to. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t—” Before he knew what he was doing, he grabbed her hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing her palm. He kept it pressed to his lips, afraid to let her go. He would have been content to live the rest of his life in that moment, but her voice pulled him from that fantasy. “Alastor.” Reluctantly, he released her hand and looked up at her. “May I?” she asked, lifting her hand again. He was confused. What did she—? She ran her fingertips over his cheek, lightly tracing his scars. She said, “I just … I just need to reassure myself that you’re here. That you’re alive.” He could barely breathe, but he managed to whisper, “I’m here.” Leaning forward, she kissed his mouth gently. “I’m so glad.” She touched her brow to his and left it there. The scent of her made him dizzy, and when she sat back, he reached for her again, pressing his face to her neck, inhaling more of her. She let out a soft breath, and he realised he had actually opened his mouth and tasted her skin with his tongue. He tried to pull away, but she held him close. The thrumming of her heart and the rise and fall of her chest had a hypnotic effect. His pulse slowed and his breath fell into her steady rhythm. They sat like that, simply existing together, until a knock at the door broke the spell. A jolt of familiar fear shook Alastor, and he tried to stand, but Minerva kept her arms around him. The knock came again, and she sighed, releasing him. She rose and went to the door. “Who is it?” she asked. “It’s Albus.” She turned to Alastor with a questioning look. Bugger him. With the possible exception of Barty fecking Crouch fecking Junior, Albus Dumbledore was the last person he wanted to see just now, but he nodded, resigned to the inevitable. As she opened the door, he tensed, reaching reflexively for his wand. Before Dumbledore could enter, she said to him, “Give me your wand.” “I’m sorry?” “Your wand, Albus. For security.” Dumbledore withdrew it from his sleeve and handed it to her. Alastor thought he might faint with surprise when she drew her own wand and turned it on the headmaster. “Finite Incantatem. Homenum Revelio. Specialis Revelio. What was the other one, Alastor?” “Decipere Aperio.” She performed the spell, then turned back to him. “All right?” she asked, and he nodded. If Dumbledore found the proceedings odd, he didn’t show it. “Alastor,” he said, coming into the room. “How are you?” “Better than I have any right to be.” “Madam Pomfrey says you refused to allow her give you the Strengthening Solution.” “I don’t take potions from just anyone.” “Understandable. But you will need to get your strength back. I’m counting on you.” “For?” “For the fight against Voldemort.” A lead stone dropped into Alastor’s belly. “He’s back, then?” “I’m afraid so.” “Christ, I’m an eejit! Letting that bastard get hold of me. I—” He stood too fast, and his vision swam. Minerva put a steadying hand on his arm, and he let her help him back into the chair. Dumbledore had the good grace to ignore the incident. “It was going to happen one way or another,” Dumbledore said. “And it doesn’t seem to have gone quite the way he planned. For one thing, Potter still lives.” “No thanks to me.” “On the contrary, I suspect it had quite a bit to do with you. There was a great deal you could have revealed that might have influenced the outcome tonight.” “Not much.” “The wands. It appears he didn’t know about them. It likely saved Potter’s life.” “Yeah, well … Crouch didn’t think to ask, did he?” “Still, you could have bartered the information. I imagine there was a lot you could have given him that he would have found helpful. The fact that he discovered so little is a testament to your courage, Alastor. I’m sure he tried to be very persuasive.” Minerva made a funny sound, and Dumbledore glanced at her before continuing. “We all owe you a debt of gratitude. And our apologies.” Alastor put a hand in the air. “No more bloody ‘I’m sorrys’,” he said. “From anyone.” Gods, but he was tired. And he wanted Dumbledore out. “All right,” Dumbledore said. He looked around at the room, which still bore the signs of its former occupant, including several empty phials and a small, dirty cauldron. “Would you prefer a different set of rooms? I could arrange—” “No need. I’ll get back to London after I’ve had a kip.” “No,” Minerva said. Both Alastor and Dumbledore turned their heads to look at her. “You need rest,” she said. “You should stay here. Your flat may not be safe.” Alastor started to object, but he was interrupted by Dumbledore. “It would be most helpful, Alastor, if you were nearby for the time being. I’m reforming the Order, and we will have much to discuss.” Alastor recognised that he’d been double-teamed, but gave a terse nod anyway. He was too tired to argue. That Minerva wanted him to stay—even if it were just to babysit him—made him feel as if he’d been given the Draught of Peace. “Well then,” Dumbledore said. “You are in good hands. Minerva, I will see you at the staff meeting in the morning. We should all get some sleep. It’s been a terrible day. Although not without its blessings. I’m very glad to have you back with us, Alastor.” “Yeah. Thanks.” When Dumbledore left, Minerva shut the door behind him. She said, “You should eat something before bed.” Alastor nodded, letting his eyes close. When he opened them again, she was still there, looking at him. “I can’t stay here, I have my house to look after,” she said. The voices in his head, which had been quiescent since Minerva had held him, began their hissing anew. She doesn’t want you. What would she want with a helpless old cripple? She’s only doing Dumbledore’s bidding … He spoke too loudly, to drown them out. “Sure. Go on. I’ll be fine.” The voices receded into his unconscious or whatever other hell they came from. The only voice in his head now was his own. Don’t go. It said. Please don’t go. “Come with me,” she said. Before he could say anything, she added, “For me, Alastor. I need you.” ~oOo~ Minerva had little appetite, but she forced herself to eat some of the shepherd’s pie Elgar had brought, in hopes it would encourage Alastor to take some nourishment. He did, although not as much as she would have liked. He was clearly knackered. She didn’t bother pestering him with the vitamin potion or Strengthening Solution. She could only hope that he’d have the energy in the coming days to brew some himself, and made a mental note to ask Severus to make his lab available. It had pained her to watch him struggle to get up the three flights of stairs to her quarters, and he had had to stop and rest every few steps. She’d kept herself from offering to Levitate him, knowing how humiliating he would have found it, but the way he leant on his staff was almost as bad. Thank Merlin all the students had been confined to their dormitories. The food had been waiting for them under a Warming Charm, and she wondered how Elgar had known there would be two people at her small table. When Alastor put down his fork and yawned, she said, “Why don’t you go in and use the loo first, and I’ll find something for you to sleep in. Do you still prefer pyjamas, or would a nightshirt do?” He hesitated, then said, “Nightshirt. It’s easier these days.” “All right. There should be a clean flannel and towel in the bath, and I keep a new toothbrush in the drawer next to the sink.” “Thanks.” When he came out, she handed him the nightshirt she’d Transfigured from a set of old robes and went into the bathroom to clean her teeth and wash her face. She re-emerged to find him still sitting there in the ill-fitting robe Poppy had given him when he’d insisted on leaving the infirmary. He watched her as she took down her hair. She went to her wardrobe and withdrew a nightdress. Forcing herself to move slowly and deliberately, she began to undress. When she stepped out of her robes, he started to unbutton his. As she removed her bra, his good eye shifted to focus on a photo of her grandchildren that sat on her bedside, but the magical one spun around several times before fixing itself on her breasts. He pounded on his head with the heel of his hand. “Damn thing doesn’t work right. Can’t control it. Sorry.” “I thought we were finished with sorrys,” she said, smiling despite the fleeting image of the imposter’s leer that had come to her. “At least he didn’t fuck up the leg,” Alastor muttered. She pulled the nightdress on over her head and debated what to do about her knickers. She didn’t want to make him more uncomfortable, but he likely remembered that she didn’t wear them in bed, and she wanted everything to seem as normal as it could be under the circumstances, so she slid them off, picked them up with her robes and bra, and took the clothes to the hamper in the bath. When she returned, his shoe and sock were laid next to the bed, but he still hadn’t taken the borrowed robes off. He sat quietly, his head down. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you need help?” “No. It’s just—” “What?” “Nothing.” She sat down next to him. “Is it this?” She put a gentle hand on his bad leg. He looked at her, his real eye bloodshot, the magical one still whirring. “I’m a cripple, Minerva. An old, ugly man. You don’t need it staring you in the face.” “You’re not a cripple, we’re both old, and as someone once said, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” “Still—” “If you don’t want me to look, I won’t. But I promise that seeing it won’t change anything. Not for me, anyway.” “I can’t bear for you to see my weakness. Stupid—as if you didn’t know it already.” “That’s just it, Alastor. I know you. And you know me. There are no secrets between us. You’ve seen every part of me, and I don’t just mean the marks on my belly from when I carried Malcolm or the bits I’ve never even seen myself. You’ve seen the darkest parts of my soul, and if you didn’t run from that, I can certainly manage to look at your leg.” He exhaled hard and nodded. Minerva finished undoing the buttons to his robe, and he opened it. She kissed his cheek before letting her gaze drop to his prosthetic leg. “It’s wood,” she said, surprised. “I thought Malcolm said it was metal.” “The first one was. Too noisy, though, so I had this one made.” She touched one of the straps that held the socket to the end of his stump. “Will you show me how to take it off?” She read the doubt in his face and tried to keep her own expression neutral as he searched for his courage. Her heart sped up. She was not afraid to see what lay under the prosthesis, but she was afraid of his fear. Whatever was happening between them now was fragile, and it seemed as if the slightest breath could send either of them reeling away. His voice was very quiet when he said, “First I undo the buckles.” Relief flooded her. She trembled as she reached for the first buckle, and he touched her hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “You don’t have to.” He was right; she didn’t have to. It was enough that he was willing to let her help him. “I know,” she said. “But this is part of our life now. I won’t ignore it.” He opened his mouth as if to say something, but pressed his lips together again, nodding. She set to work on the buckle. It was tight. “You need to pull harder,” he said. “Go on. You won’t hurt me.” When she’d undone both, he said, “There’s a spell that helps it stick to the … the stump. A Finite Incantatem will do it, but it has to be very focused. You’ll need your wand. I can do it without, but it … it’ll take practice.” She took her wand from the bedside table where she’d laid it, and pointed it at the top of the prosthesis.” “Finite.” Nothing happened. He said, “The spell’s strong. Might be easier after you’ve actually seen the stump.” He did his own wandless Finite, and the prosthesis dropped to the floor. She felt his eyes on her as she looked down at his leg. The area above the stump was pink with irritation, and the skin around it puckered into a waxy-looking mass of scar tissue where the leg ended above the knee. His thigh was pale and thin where it disappeared into the leg hole of his underpants. She swallowed. “Lovely, isn’t it?” he said. “It isn’t that. It reminded me for a moment of the day you were injured. I would give anything for you not to have had that pain, Alastor, but the leg itself doesn’t bother me. It’s like the mole on Malcolm’s bum: neither ugly nor beautiful, but part of someone I love,” she said. He made grunting sound, and she asked, “Does it hurt?” He cleared his throat and said, “It’s sore right now because I’m not used to the prosthesis. Usually it only bothers me if I’ve been doing too much running about on it.” “Wait a moment,” she said, getting up and heading into the bathroom. She emerged with a tin of salve. “Will you let me put some of this on? It might soothe the skin. It’s one of Malcolm’s.” “All right.” She massaged the unguent into the skin of his stump, gingerly at first, and then more firmly as she gained confidence that she wasn’t hurting him. “Feels good,” he said. “Same one he’s made for me, I’d guess.” “I use it when my hands and feet are tender.” At his raised eyebrow, she said, “Paws are much tougher than human skin. Sometimes I forget and overdo it.” “I’ll have to return the favour,” he said as she rubbed. “It’s better when someone else does it.” He took a deep breath. “Smells like lavender. Mine’s more like Eucalyptus. But I guess you won’t mind me smelling like a girl for tonight.” “I don’t think there’s much I’d mind tonight.” It was perhaps a terrible thing to say, given everything that had transpired, but it was the truth. She’d think about the Dark Lord and Cedric Diggory and everything else tomorrow. Tonight, there was only the fact that Alastor still lived. They were quiet as she worked the balm into his leg. When she finished, she sealed the tin, cleaning her hands with her wand. “Bed?” she asked. “Yeah.” To her surprise, he stood up, holding on to the bedside table for balance, shrugged off his robe, and pushed his underpants down, where they bunched around his ankle. After he pulled on the nightshirt, he swivelled gracefully around on his one foot and turned down the covers. “I hope you still like the right side, because I’m not hopping around the bed,” he said, letting himself fall back onto the mattress. “The right side is just fine.” “Good.” He kicked the underpants off his good foot and Banished the discarded clothes to the hamper. “I know you don’t approve of using magic for things like that,” he said, tucking his wand under the pillow, “but I’ve got lazy in me old age.” “I can hardly complain. You used to leave them lying on the floor, if I recall correctly.” “I remember one or two occasions when I persuaded you to leave yours.” “Yes, I remember that too.” She got into bed beside him and doused the candles wandlessly. Shifting to her side, she laid a palm against his chest. His heart was beating hard and fast. “Minerva … I don’t know if—” “Enough for tonight,” she said. “Sleep now.” His hand covered hers and squeezed it. As his heartbeat slowed, his breathing became deep and rhythmic. She lay still, listening to him for a few minutes, then drifted into a sleep that was surprisingly empty of bad dreams. ← Back to Chapter 39 On to Chapter 41 → Category:Chapters of A Slant-Told Tale